Then waxing.
“Let’s start with her,” one stylist said, pointing at me.
“No waxing,” I growled. “You try waxing my eyebrows and I will file a complaint to the United Nations.”
“Understood. Just threading.”
Of course they didn't listen.
Few seconds later. I swear I saw angels. How could someone get through that torture? And they call this pampering?
Hell. If this wasn’t torture, I don’t know what is anymore. Forget waterboarding, forget military interrogation—try getting your leg hair ripped out by a woman named Daisy who smiles like she’s snacking on your screams.
“I promise it’s not that bad!” Mylene had said, like a traitor. “It’s just a wax.”
WAX, she said.
They should call it Skin-Ripping Hell Melted From Satan’s Armpit. I was gripping the edge of the spa bed like I was about t
